Delilah

Chapter 6: Private Tables

Delilah arrived at the restaurant twenty minutes late on purpose.

She had changed at home into something softer, darker, more deliberate, a deep charcoal dress that clung to every curve without apology. The fabric was thin enough that the air conditioning raised goosebumps along her bare arms. The neckline dipped low, framing the soft swell of her breasts so that every lean forward offered more. The hem stopped mid-thigh, high enough that sitting would be its own quiet performance. Underneath she wore nothing but a thin black lace thong and the quiet certainty that Anderson would notice.

The private dining room was exactly what she expected: low lighting, heavy curtains drawn against the city, a single table set for two in the far corner. The air smelled faintly of wine and something warmer, almost intimate. Anderson was already there, jacket still on, fingers tapping once against the stem of his glass when she walked in.

His eyes moved over her the way they had in the conference room, only this time there was no pretense of looking at slides. They lingered on the open collar of her dress, the soft press of her breasts against the fabric, the long line of her legs as she crossed the room.

“Ms. Delilah,” he said, standing a little too quickly.

She smiled, slow and warm, and let him take her in. “Mr. Anderson.”

She didn’t offer her hand. Instead she stepped close enough that the faint scent of her perfume, something soft and expensive, warm against her skin, reached him first. Then she slid into the chair across from him with that same unhurried grace she used everywhere. One leg crossed over the other. The dress rode higher along her thigh. She watched his throat work as he sat back down.

“I was starting to think you might not come,” he said, voice already rougher than it had been earlier.

“I told you I would be here.” She accepted the glass of red wine the waiter poured and took a slow sip, eyes never leaving Anderson’s. The wine was good, a little sweet on the finish. She let it rest on her tongue before swallowing. “I always keep my word… when it suits me.”

The conversation started with the proposal, the way these things always did. Numbers. Projections. Soft questions about risk and return. Delilah answered every one with the same calm precision she used in boardrooms, but her voice stayed low, almost intimate. Every time she leaned forward to make a point, the neckline of her dress offered more, the soft inner curve of her breasts, the faint shadow between them. Every time she sat back, the fabric stretched across her chest and the soft curve of her waist. She watched him struggle to keep his eyes on her face and fail, again and again.

She let the silence between answers stretch longer than necessary. Let him fill it with glances he couldn’t quite control. When the waiter returned to refill their glasses she thanked him without looking away from Anderson, the corner of her mouth curved in quiet amusement.

Halfway through the second glass of wine she stopped talking about the deal entirely.

“You’re staring,” she said quietly.

Anderson’s ears flushed. He reached for his glass, then set it down again without drinking. “You’re difficult to look away from.”

“I know.” She ran one fingertip slowly around the rim of her glass, the motion deliberate, almost idle. “That’s why you called.”

He didn’t deny it. His eyes dropped to her mouth, then lower, then back up again like he was trying to remember how to breathe.

By the time the plates were cleared, the air between them was thick. Anderson’s voice had gone rough. His gaze kept drifting to her mouth, her throat, the place where the dress met the tops of her thighs. Delilah let the silence stretch, then stood in one smooth motion. The dress settled against her body again, clinging.

“I think we’ve discussed enough business for one night,” she said.

He rose with her, closer than necessary. The heat of him reached her even before he spoke. “Where are you going?”

She looked up at him through her lashes, smile soft and knowing. “Wherever you take me next.”

The hotel was only a few blocks away. Private entrance. Top floor. Anderson had clearly planned for the possibility, his hand rested lightly at the small of her back as they walked through the quiet lobby, fingers warm through the thin fabric of her dress. In the elevator he didn’t speak. He only watched her reflection in the mirrored wall, eyes dark, jaw tight. Delilah met his gaze in the glass and let the corner of her mouth lift, just enough.

The suite door closed behind them with a soft click.

The moment it did, Delilah turned and pushed him back against it. She didn’t kiss him right away. She simply stood close enough that her breasts brushed his chest with every slow breath, one hand resting lightly on his tie. The heat of his body soaked into her. She could feel how hard he already was, pressed against her lower stomach.

“You’ve been thinking about this since the conference room,” she murmured, voice low.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

She pulled the tie loose, slow and deliberate, the silk sliding free with a soft whisper. Then she opened the first two buttons of his shirt, enough to bare the warm skin of his throat and the top of his chest. Her mouth found the side of his neck, soft, open, tasting the faint salt of his skin and the expensive cologne she remembered from the boardroom. Anderson’s hands finally settled on her waist, then slid lower, gripping the full curve of her ass through the thin fabric of the dress. His fingers dug in, possessive. She felt him throb against her and smiled against his neck.

“Impatient,” she whispered.

She stepped back just far enough to reach behind her and lower the zipper of her dress. The sound was quiet in the large room. The fabric slipped from her shoulders and pooled at her feet in a soft charcoal circle. She stood in front of him in nothing but the black lace thong and heels, skin warm under the low light, n*****s already hard from the cool air and the way he was looking at her.

Anderson stared like a man who had been starving.

Delilah closed the distance again. She took his hand, large, warm, slightly trembling and guided it between her thighs. She was already slick, the thin lace damp against her. She let him feel it, slow and deliberate, pressing his fingers against the soaked fabric first, then slipping them beneath. Two of his fingers pushed inside her with a soft, wet sound. She made a low, broken noise in the back of her throat and rolled her hips against his hand, taking him deeper.

“f**k,” he breathed.

“Yes.”

She walked him backward toward the bed, still working his fingers inside herself, hips rolling in a slow, filthy rhythm. The wet sound of it filled the quiet room. When the backs of his knees hit the mattress she shoved him down and climbed over him, straddling his lap. The hard length of him pressed against the soaked lace of her thong. She ground down once, slow and deliberate, watching his head tip back against the pillows, watching the way his mouth opened on a silent curse.

Delilah unbuckled his belt with steady hands, freed him, and wrapped her fingers around the thick heat of his c**k. He was already leaking, the head flushed and wet. She stroked him once, twice, spreading the slickness, feeling him pulse in her grip. Then she rose onto her knees, pulled the thong to the side, and sank down onto him in one long, controlled slide.

The stretch pulled a low, broken moan from her throat. He was thick enough that she felt every inch, the slow burn of being filled turning quickly into something hotter. Anderson’s hands flew to her hips, gripping hard enough to bruise. She didn’t give him time to adjust. She rode him with the same deliberate rhythm she used for everything, hips rolling, thighs flexing, the soft weight of her breasts moving with every deep grind. The wet sound of her body taking him was obscene in the quiet room. Every downward stroke made her c**t drag against him. Pleasure coiled tight and low, sharp and sweet.

“Look at me,” she ordered, voice husky.

He did. His eyes were dark, almost desperate, locked on her face as she moved.

Delilah leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest, and f****d him harder. The angle changed. He hit deeper. She could feel how close he already was, the way his hips jerked up to meet her, the way his fingers dug into the soft flesh of her ass hard enough to leave marks. She didn’t slow down. She took what she wanted, rolling her hips in tight circles, chasing the heat building between her legs until it spilled over.

When she came, it was with a sharp, broken cry, walls clenching hard around him in rhythmic pulses. The force of it pulled him over the edge with her. Anderson buried himself deep and spilled inside her with a rough groan, holding her down as he throbbed through it, flooding her in long, hot pulses.

Delilah stayed there for a long moment, breathing hard, still full of him, the soft aftershocks fluttering through her. His release was warm inside her. She could feel it already starting to slip out around him. Then she leaned down and brushed her mouth against his, almost gentle, just the soft press of lips, the quiet taste of wine still on both of them.

“Contract’s yours,” he said against her mouth. “If you still want it.”

Delilah’s laugh was breathless, stunned. His hands were still on her hips, thumbs stroking absently over the marks he had left. “I’ve wanted it since the first time you walked into that room.”

She smiled, satisfied, and slowly lifted off him. His release slipped down her inner thighs in a warm, slick trail as she stood. She didn’t clean it away. She simply stepped back into her dress, smoothed the fabric over her hips and the soft curve of her ass, and looked at him still sprawled on the bed, shirt open, pants undone, c**k still half-hard and glistening.

“I’ll send the paperwork in the morning.”

Anderson pushed up onto his elbows, still watching her like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. “Stay.”

Delilah paused at the door, one hand on the handle, the soft curve of her smile returning. The low light caught the faint sheen of sweat at her throat, the marks of his fingers already blooming on her hips beneath the dress.

“I don’t stay,” she said quietly. “But you can call me again when you need something else.”

Then she left, heels clicking softly against the hallway floor, the low heat of victory and satisfaction still humming under her skin. Between her thighs she was still wet with him, every step a quiet reminder of exactly how easily most men handed her what she wanted.

Kevin Veyron wanted proof.

Anderson had simply reminded her that some victories were softer, wetter, and already hers before the night even began.

And Delilah had never been in the habit of denying herself either.